


The Words are Maps

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Sexuality Series [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternative Sexuality, Demisexual Phil, Demisexuality, First Kiss, First Time, Get Together, I'm so bad at tagging, M/M, Medical Trauma, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, ace bandages are NOT binders, love is unconditional, trans Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:11:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3330506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No words came; Phil was speechless under the revelation of how much he wanted Clint. He could only stare at the familiar face, the fading bruises, and the dawning understanding in the blue grey depths.</p><p>“Phil?” Clint covered Phil’s hand with his own, curled his fingers around Phil’s and sat up. “Are you …”</p><p>“I died.” Phil couldn’t understand it. “And this is heaven. You, here, with me.”</p><p>A hesitant smile turned up the corner of Clint’s lips. “Heaven? Me?”</p><p>Second in my sexuality series. Trans Clint and Demisexual Phil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Words are Maps

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second story in my sexuality series. Trans Clint and Demisexual Phil
> 
> As always, I get overcome by the need to write fluffy happiness even when I'm working towards another goal. I hope you enjoy the outcome. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: there are two examples of transphobia in the story. The medical section could be especially upsetting as trans people often have problematic dealings with doctors. The other is a transphobic SHIELD agent and is milder. Feel free to skip to the next section if that bothers you.

_This is the place._

_And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair_

_streams black, the merman in his armored body._

_We circle silently_

_about the wreck_

_we dive into the hold._

_I am she: I am he_

_Adrienne Rich “Diving Into the Wreck”_

 

The door sign simply said “Don.”  Clint paused before knocking, unsure of just what he’d done to get himself in this situation. When the order had come down from his new handler, Clint was immediately convinced he was being fired. He had, after all, violated a direct command from a level five agent and been insubordinate. Telling an idiot to go fuck himself wasn’t SHIELD protocol, or so it seemed, even if Clint had managed to salvage the op and get the team out with only a broken wrist and a set of bruised ribs (his own). HIs second mission under Coulson and he’d screwed it up. Of course, if Coulson had been the voice in his ear, Clint wouldn’t have had to go off the reservation. Coulson was smart and had allowed Clint to ask questions; he would never have insisted Clint take the shot with so much collateral damage possible.

 

“Come in!” A pleasant voice called, and Clint opened the door to find an older black man, his large frame encased in a loud blue Hawaiian shirt and a pair of wrinkled khakis, behind a counter littered with material and patterns. A storage area was to the right, rows of shelves and boxes neatly labeled and stacked. “Ah, you must be Clint. Don’t be shy, boy, come on around here and let me measure you.”

 

Confused, Clint did as he was told; a threadbare yellow measuring tape appeared in the man’s agile fingers and he started at Clint’s shoulders, noting each distance carefully on a little pad of paper. He clucked as he circled Clint’s waist then wrapped the tape around his chest. The worst was the inseam when he ran his hand all the way up to Clint’s crotch and Clint jumped. It was all very professional, but Clint had little experience with tailoring. His clothes came from Walmart and Sears, premade off the clearance racks.

 

“Okay, I think we’ve got some ready-to-wear that will fit well enough until I can make the rest,” Don said, standing and dropping the tape on the counter. “Coulson wants at least two tactical suits and a couple sets of plain clothes. Pick out your boot size and we’ve got tennis shoes over in row seven. Grab a pair of those as well.”

 

Don left little option but to do as he said, so Clint found the right place and picked out a black leather pair of shitkickers with steel toes (the nicest ones he’d ever owned, all new and shiny) then a set of Nikes for running and training. By the time he got back to the counter, two plastic bags were loaded up with clothes, ready for Clint’s signature on the distribution form.

 

“I don’t understand,” Clint said. “I thought I was getting fired.”

 

With a hearty laugh, Don slapped him on the shoulder. “Nah, Wilson’s a dick. Had it coming. I think Sitwell won the betting pool on when it happened. Anyway, Phil’s more upset about the state of your gear; said you hadn’t requisitioned any new stuff yet. You’re to go to the Weapon Master next and get started on personalized arm guards and gloves then R & D. The brains down there have some ideas for new arrows and quivers.”

 

Clint stood, dumbfounded, unable to reply. New gear? Quivers? Guards? What was Coulson up to?

 

“Oh, and be sure to wear these from now on.” Don tucked some black tank tops and underwear into the bags. “Special compression material, amazing stuff they’ve developed. Lets your skin breath and holds like nothing else. The bottoms have a built-in flexible cup; minimum protection, but it can play double-duty if you need to change in front of others.”

 

The binders looked innocuous in Don’s big hands; Clint felt his face go red and he stammered out a denial. “I don’t … I mean I …”

 

“Hey, no worries, kid.” Don shrugged. “My oldest begs me to bring him the bike shorts version of these; technically, I’m not supposed to but I keep telling ‘em if they’d market these things, we could fund half our budget. He keeps giving them away to his friends down at the club. Boy’s got himself a band and plays most weekends. You like jazz? It’s a jazz rock fusion thing. Don’t understand it completely, but it sounds really good. Here, I’ll give you a card for the place. You’d like it. Nothing fancy, just a little place with good people.”

 

Clint took the card, dazed by the conversation, and picked up the bags. The whole way back to his bunk, he replayed it over in his head, wondering if he’d missed some secret message or something. He’d been careful since he came to SHIELD to keep a low profile on the dating scene, sticking to himself mostly when not on duty. Fury might talk a good game of diversity, but Clint knew better than to trust in the goodness of people. Life had taught him that much.

 

His thoughts running in a circle, he found himself in the hallway outside of Coulson’s office, off the beaten track for the weapons locker. His handler’s door was cracked, light spilling out; Clint froze two steps away, unsure why he’d come here, but needing to get a read on Coulson’s motives. With a light tap, he opened the door wider and stuck his head in. Coulson sat at his desk, suit jacket hung over the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up. Pages of paperwork littered the surface and Coulson’s ink stained fingers gripped a pen, making careful letters to fill in the blanks.

 

“Barton?” Coulson looked up, surprise in his eyes.

 

“Um, yeah, Sir.” Clint’s mouth went dry; he licked his lips, a nervous habit, and continued. “Just wanted to say thanks. For the new stuff. The clothes and things. I’m headed down to talk about arm guards now.”

 

Coulson sat back, his chair squeaking. “Don got you all fixed up? Did he invite you to hear his son’s band?”

 

“Yeah, gave me a card and everything.” Tension ran out of Clint’s shoulders as he began to relax. “He’s their number one fan, I take it?”

 

“They’re actually pretty good. Jasper and I go down there sometimes to unwind.” Coulson smiled. “Make sure the R&D guys don’t talk you out of your recurve. They’re going to push a compound bow because they like more firepower.”

 

“No, sir, I won’t. If there’s one thing I know, its bows.” Clint nodded, hand on the knob. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow at the debriefing. Just wanted to thank you.”

 

“No problem,” Coulson said, sliding one form out of the way and replacing it with another. Clint started to back out of the office, closing the door as he went then Coulson’s voice stopped him. “Oh, and Barton? If I ever hear of you using ace bandages as a binder again, you’ll do a tour at the Antarctica station, understand?”

 

Clint froze but Coulson had already turned his eyes down and he didn’t look back up. Releasing the breath he was holding, Clint replied, “Yes, Sir.”

* * *

 

“Well,” Clint drawled, his leg draped across the arm of the office chair, spinning it lazily in a circle. “Am I shit out of luck or what?”

 

The conference room was little more than a metal box in the interior of the building. Director Donaldson liked to use it when he wanted to make people feel trapped, and so he’d sent Clint to wait here until he dealt with the fallout of the Black Widow coming in from the cold. The fact that Phil had backed Clint’s call and the operation commander had been notified immediately didn’t seem to matter to certain factions.

 

“I’ve got food,” Phil said, dropping the take out bag on the table. “I, for one, am hungry as hell. My stomach feels like it’s trying to gnaw its way out. Jasper went and picked it up for us; I’m restricted to base until, quote, saner heads prevail.”

 

“Oh, thank God.” Clint dove at the bag, all pretense at nonchalance gone, and started pulling out butcher paper wrapped items. “Calexico? The cart must be out. Which one’s yours?”

 

“The Carne Asada. Got you a chipotle pork.” Phil sat down and passed over a can of soda. Clint drank soda like water. “Plenty of napkins along with rice and beans. ‘Least we can do is eat well before we go to our execution.”

 

Clint handed over Phil’s burrito and opened his own, taking a big bite before he popped the tab on the cold can. “If they fire you over this, they’re even bigger idiots that I thought. Seriously. The Black Widow? Why wouldn’t they want her on our side?”

 

“There’s some doubt about her motives, as you well know.” Phil settled into eating, leaning over the table to avoid drops of salsa on his tie. “She could be trying to infiltrate SHIELD.”

 

“Oh, right. She’s worked her feminine wiles on me and I fell for it.” Clint snorted and choked on a bit of rice. He took a long swallow to clear his throat. “Unfortunately, she’s got the wrong equipment. Boobs just don’t do it for me. She’s have better luck with you or Nick.”

 

“Sorry, wouldn't work. I’m gay,” Phil tossed out. Didn’t seem fair that Phil knew all of Clint’s secrets and Clint knew virtually nothing about Phil’s life. “I might buy the down-and-out merc whose exhausted all their options … oh wait, that was you, wasn’t it?”

 

Clint did a spit take, only narrowly avoiding spewing his mouthful of soda on the table. “Hold on a minute and back that train up. Phil Coulson plays for the other team? Why did I not know this? Who else knows? Does everyone? Hey, does this mean you can be my wingman and hit some gay bars to scope out possibilities? No, strike that. They’ll probably think you’re my sugar daddy with your suit and tie and I’ll get nowhere.”

 

“Technically, it’s not anyone else’s business, but I’m not in the closet or anything.” No, Phil had come out after his time in the army and hadn’t regretted it. Sure he got flak from people and his family took it badly, but they’d come around eventually. Sort of. “By the way, Romanov asked about you. She’s worried you’re in trouble for helping her.”

 

“You saw her?” Clint said. “She doing okay? I promised her we’d treat her well. As much as we could, of course, considering her background.”

 

“In a secure cell with guards, but she got to eat before you did,” Phil told him. “I think Nick will talk Donaldson down and they’ll present a united front to the WSC. Quite a coup after all.”

 

“Good. But back to you being gay. Weren’t you in the Rangers? How did that go?” Clint leaned forward and Phil had to smile at the eagerness in his eyes Thing was, Phil liked Clint. A lot. It wasn’t easy for him, the whole socializing and getting close to others. He kept himself apart, made the decisions he had to, and did his job. But some people wormed their way past the wall Phil had erected. Jasper kept dragging Phil to new food trucks. Melinda kept kicking Phil’s ass in the sparring ring. And Clint made Phil laugh every time they were together.

 

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Phil quipped, earning a big grin from Clint. “Don’t make me sorry I told you. If I start getting emails from matches online, I’ll know who to come find.”

 

Clint gave Phil his best ‘who me?’ look. “You wound me, Phil. I’d go for the phone number on the bathroom wall of Flaming Saddles. You look like a ride a cowboy type.”

 

A hearty laugh burst from Phil’s throat. “Just for that, I’m going to eat both of these myself,” he said, pulling two Cadbury dairy milk caramel bars from his pocket.

 

“Is that a real one or one of the US knockoffs?” Clint asked, snatching one from Phil’s hand. “Damn, it’s the good stuff; you rock, Coulson.”

 

“Remember that when you’re busted down to running the weapons closet for six months.” Phil wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t going to happen; Director Donaldson had been red faced when he’d heard. But, in the end, he believed the bragging rights of luring the Black Widow in would win. “And I’m stuck in a cubicle in bowels of purchasing.”

 

“Don’t worry. I’ll bring you lunch on occasion,” Clint promised.

* * *

 

“Hey, you want to grab a cup of coffee or something? It’s chocolate cake day in the cafeteria.”

 

Clint didn’t wince but it was a close thing. He liked Martin, really he did, but Clint just wasn’t up to starting something. Right now, he was too busy to even think of negotiating the minefield of a relationship; Strike Team Delta’s latest success meant they were flying all over the world to take on impossible jobs. Clint’s life was filled with uncomfortable seats in cargo planes, crappy hotels (if he was lucky), and moments of pure adrenaline pounding action.

 

“Um, yeah, thanks,” Clint started, bumbling over the words. “But I’ve got a briefing this afternoon and I haven’t read the intel report yet.”

 

“No problem.” Martin smiled, handing over his weapon and taking off his ear protectors. “Maybe later. Assuming you get more than a day or two between ops anytime soon.”

 

“I wouldn’t mind sleeping for three days straight, that’s for sure.” Clint was beyond exhausted, always on edge. The doctors had switched him over to a different hormone regime, new pellets inserted under his skin, and he was feeling the change. He’d had to buy new shirts last time he was in town, but he also had night sweats, waking to the feeling his body was too tight upon his frame.

 

Thankfully, Martin accepted Clint’s excuse; he hadn’t lied after all. Waiting in his inbox were some thick packets and then they were due to ship out in the morning. He needed to get some clean clothes and restock his go packet. There was paperwork from the last op to be finished. He might get four hours of sleep if he went to his bunk and got started on it all.

 

Instead, he swung by the cafeteria and made his way to Phil’s office, tapping on the open door as he came in. Phil looked the worst for wear, dark circles under his eyes, his head down over his desk. The only reaction Clint got when he sat down the styrofoam container was a raised eyebrow. Clint shrugged and plopped down on the ratty old couch, opening his burger and fries as he kicked up his feet onto the guest chair he maneuvered close enough to reach.

 

“Don’t you have things to do, Barton?” Phil asked as he peeked at his food. “Besides bring me meatloaf and hog my couch?”

 

“Come on, Coulson. You love Molly’s meatloaf. I even got you extra gravy and one of the yeast rolls. Least I can do since you spotted me that po’boy in New Orleans. Can’t have you keeling over on the mission.” The burger was juicy with crisp lettuce and a spicy mayo; say what he would, SHIELD had decent cooks.  The buffalo chicken mac and cheese was Clint’s favorite.

 

“I’m capable of feeding myself you know,” Phil groused as he dipped his fork into the creamy mashed potatoes and took a bite. “You just want to steal my wifi. I’m onto you, Clint Barton.”

 

Clint chuckled; the lack of reliable wifi in the bunks was one of his frequent complaints. “Have to keep caught up on the gossip pages. See what the Kardashians are up to today. And if Snooki got a new tan.”

 

“You’re hopeless,” Phil replied with a matching grin. “Use my tablet to read the damn intel so you can at least pretend to have done your homework.”

 

“That’s what we’ve got you for, Phil. You’re the brains of this operation,” Clint shot back. “Natasha’s the brawn and I’m the plucky comic relief.”

 

Something shifted in Phil’s eyes as he looked at Clint. “You’re the heart of the team, Clint. Always have been.”

 

Warmth flooded through Clint’s body; he tucked his head down, intent on the next bite to hide his blush. Damn crush on Phil was getting out of hand. “If you’re going to go all full-blown Hallmark moment on me, give a guy a warning, will ya? What if I’d had a mouthful?”

 

“Eat your lunch,” Phil said. “Then get to work.”

 

* * *

 

“Stay with me, Clint. Hold on, we’re almost there.”

 

Phil wasn’t above begging as his hands were soaked in Clint’s blood; the only thing keeping Clint’s guts inside his body the damn compression binder. Thank God Clint was unconscious; the helicopter evac was a nightmare of a ride with air pockets and jerky movements to avoid RPGs as they left the war zone behind. The airbase wasn’t far; Phil had radioed ahead, told them to have their best trauma specialist ready. But still he whispered a silent prayer that Clint would make it that far.

 

The helicopter landed with a hard bump and staff grabbed the gurney, sliding it out and extending the legs so they could wheel it into the hospital.  “What have we got?” An older male doctor asked as Phil jumped onto the tarmac.

 

“Multiple gunshot wounds to the stomach.” Phil relieved that moment of terror when the echoes reached his ears and he saw Clint tossed back like a puppet whose strings had been cut. “He’s lost a lot of blood and his vitals are weak.”

 

“Get an operating room cleared and prepped,” the doctor shouted to a nurse over the sounds of other aircraft. They barreled through two automatic glass doors and down a sterile white hallway. “Start an IV drip and call the anesthesiologist. Soon as we know what we’re looking at, we’ll be heading to surgery.”

 

Helpless. That’s how Phil felt as they pushed Clint into an ER room. Clint’s face was ashen white, one hand hanging off the side of the gurney, blood dripping to the floor below. Torn between his desire to find the rat who turned on them and his need to stay by Clint’s side, Phil almost started when Natasha laid a comforting hand on his arm.

 

“He’s strong,” she reminded him but her eyes were red rimmed and doubt laced her voice. “He has to make it.”

 

There was nothing to do but watch as the doctor and nurses swarmed around Clint’s bedside, cutting away his clothing, revealing the extent of the damage. Phil screwed down his emotions -- getting angry or losing control wasn’t going to help Clint -- and started making lists of things to do instead. He’d radioed Nick from the helicopter; a SHIELD team was on the way. Jasper was cleaning up the mess they’d left behind.

 

“Excuse me, are either of you Miss Barton’s next of kin?” the doctor asked.

 

“I’m his medical proxy,” Phil replied. The doctor nodded.

 

“We’re going to have to operate. The bullets perforated her intestines and did some damage to other organs, but the biggest worry is internal bleeding. We’ve clamped off some of the arteries and we need to get that under control,” the doctor explained. “We’ll do what we can to save her ovaries and uterus, but I can’t make any promises. I know how difficult it will be for a young woman to wake up and learn she can never have kids, but there may be no other option.”

 

“Do what you have to,” Phil said. He knew Clint had been wrestling with the surgical options for a while now, worried as much about the recovery time as he was about the changes. “And Clint is a he, not a she.”

 

The doctor paused, his face going rigid. “Miss Barton is a female. We need to deal with that fact.”

 

White hot anger filled Phil’s head, almost burning through his calm facade. “I see,” he said. The doctor stepped back a pace. “Excuse me, nurse … Braxton, is it? Is there another doctor on staff who can handle this surgery? One who isn’t as closed minded as Doctor Jackson here?”

 

“Now, you wait a minute,” Jackson sputtered, but the nurse spoke over him.

 

“Doctor Ravi is the ob/gyn on call. Shall I page her?” Braxton, a young black man, didn’t seem phased by Jackson’s growing anger. “She volunteers at the children’s clinic in town. Nice woman.”

 

“Yes, please.” Phil turned a tight smile at the nurse.

 

“You can’t do this.” Jackson insisted. “I’m the head of Trauma Services and I won’t be dismissed because you won’t face facts.”

 

“And Nurse Braxton, could you have the MPs escort Dr. Jackson out of here? He’s upsetting the patients.”

 

Hours later, Phil squeezed Clint’s hand as his eyes opened, pupils still dilated from the morphine drip.

 

“Did you get the number of the truck that hit me?” Clint said weakly.

 

“Did better than that. We pulled out and nuked the site from orbit,” Phil promised. Clint blinked and tried to focus, a loopy smile on his face.

 

“Damn, this is the good stuff.” He squeezed Phil back. “Is it one of those where I can press the button and go flying when I want to?”

 

“I see our patient’s awake,” Dr. Ravi said as she entered the room. A small woman, not even five feet tall, she bustled about with purpose and energy. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Like Humpty Dumpty. Did it take all the king’s horses to put me back together again?” Clint replied. Tension lifted from Phil’s shoulders at the familiar sound of Clint joking around.

 

“Just me and a couple nurses, although we had a few parts leftover when we were done.” Ravi checked the readings on the various machines. “Unfortunately, about a foot of your intestines, your ovaries and your uterus were too damaged to be saved. I was careful to keep the nerve clusters and blood vessels as intact as possible.”

 

For a second, Clint didn’t speak; no easy quip fell from his lips and a spike of worry hit Phil. Then Clint sighed. “Well, I guess that answers that question. Seems like I’m half the man I used to be, eh?”

 

“You are not funny,” Natasha said from the other side of the bed. “We have a deal, remember? No dying.”

 

It didn’t matter that there was a mess to deal with once Phil left here. For now, Clint’s hand was warm in his, Natasha was smiling, and everything was good..

* * *

 

“What happened to the Van Dyke?” Quartermaine asked as Clint sauntered into the break room to grab some coffee. “Shaved it off already?”

 

“I was just trying it out. A little change never hurt, right?” Clint poured the black sludge into one of the paper cups and added a lot of creamer to lighten it up. “Besides, Stark has one. Thor’s got a full beard. Didn’t want people to think I was copying them.”

 

“You are full of shit, Barton,” Kiernan added from his table. “You just released your inner hipster. I expect you’ll be blasting Vampire Weekend on your iPod.”

 

“Hey, I’m a big fan of Nirvana’s ‘About a Girl’,” Clint replied, swinging a leg over a bench and sitting down. “And a backpack is just another way of wearing a man purse.”

 

Quartermaine snorted around a mouthful of blueberry muffin. “I hear you got all hot and bothered over Thor down in New Mexico. Was he as buff as everyone says?”

 

“Arms the size of tree trunks, chest as big as a barrel, small waist and thighs that could crush your head between them. Damn right, Skippy; god or no god, Thor was hot. And he was drenched in rain and covered in mud from wrestling with Everett. Be still my heart.” Clint swiped a bite of muffin.

 

“Jesus on a cracker, Barton. Could you be anymore gay?” Quartermaine jerked his treat away when Clint reached out again. “Get your own. Maxwell’s selling them for his kid’s t ball team.”

 

“Haven’t marched in a gay pride parade yet. I’ve got some of my old Amazing Hawkeye costumes with spandex and sparkles. I could dig them out.” Clint got up and dropped a five dollar bill into the envelope beside the basket, taking two muffins. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

 

“Hey, why’s Coulson on a rampage today?” Kiernan asked. “I heard he smacked down Salvador down in R&D. You do something to piss him off?”

 

“No clue.” Clint did know what was up; Phil had been more than pissed when Clint was assigned to scientist babysitting duty here at Pegasus. He and Nick were having a silent battle of wills over something big, something that even Clint didn’t know about. Whatever it was, Phil was unhappy with what was going on in the lower levels of the compound. “I’ve been a good boy lately.”

 

“Coulson got you under control, eh?” Kiernan poked his neighbor. “Always said the man was a stone cold Dom. Everyone knows you’ve got a hard on for him. Oh, wait. That’s right. Can you get a hard on?”

 

A silence fell in the room; Clint eased a step closer to Kiernan and gently set the muffins on the table. “You asking if I’m fucking Coulson?” he said quietly.

 

“Hey, guys, it’s none of our business, right?” Quartermaine interjected, trying to ease the escalating tension.

 

“Nah, I know Coulson’s got better taste than that. I’m asking if you have a dick.” Kiernan stood up; taller than Clint, he had a good three inches more height. “You being a girl and all.”

 

Clint’s blow landed between one breath and the next, a jab right to the solar plexus. Kiernan reeled back and gasped for breath. “My balls are bigger than your, Kevin, but you’re right about one thing. Phil Coulson is too good for me.”

 

Clint exited, and the room exploded in conversation behind him.

* * *

 

Phil woke slowly, swimming up through the fog, opening his eyes with a long blink and then another. Warm between soft sheets, ambient light filtering around him, Phil closed his eyes again and remembered.

 

_“Loki, step away from the panel.”_

_A sharp agonizing pain in his chest._

_Nick bending over him._

 

This time he focused, cataloguing his body starting with his feet and up to his head. No mystery aches, no familiar pull of stitches, no lingering anesthesia. He felt … like he’d had a long, deep sleep. Which was the dream, he wondered. His death at the hands of Loki? Or this?

 

He felt a weight on his left side and he turned his head.  Brown hair a mess, mouth slightly open, a bit of drool on the cover. Steady breathing, hunched over, seated in a bedside chair. Fingers so close to Phil’s, loosely curled, eyes closed, lashes resting on the curve of his cheek. Clint Barton, half on the bed, fast asleep.

 

It welled up inside of Phil, filling his chest and settling in his heart.  The fear that assailed him when he heard Maria say Clint had been taken. The worry as they searched for word of him. The ache when he saw a tired, run down Clint on the carrier video feed. The truth a long time ignored, acknowledged in a moment; love, easy, slow, familiar, grown between friends and the stir of desire that went hand and hand.

 

Phil’s fingers twitched and he brushed the tips through Clint’s soft, too-long hair. He traced down the side of Clint’s face and pushed back the strands that had fallen forward. Clint’s lashes fluttered and blue grey eyes opened and focused.

 

“Hey,” Clint murmured, turning his head so Phil’s palm cradled his cheek. “Sleeping Beauty awake finally?”

 

No words came; Phil was speechless under the revelation of how much he wanted Clint. He could only stare at the familiar face, the fading bruises, and the dawning understanding in the blue grey depths.

 

“Phil?” Clint covered Phil’s hand with his own, curled his fingers around Phil’s and sat up. “Are you …”

 

“I died.” Phil couldn’t understand it. “And this is heaven. You, here, with me.”

 

A hesitant smile turned up the corner of Clint’s lips. “Heaven? Me?”

 

“I thought I’d lost you.” Phil squeezed Clint’s hand. “Before I ever told you.”

 

“I think that’s my line.” Clint slipped out of his chair and onto the edge of bed, his weight shifting Phil until Phil’s hip rest against Clint. “When they told me you were dead … well, I thought I’d missed my chance. But you’re not dead. You’re in Stark Tower and very much alive.”

 

“How? And what happened to Loki?” Phil asked, distracted by the way Clint’s biceps tensed as he braced himself.

 

“Thor took him in chains back to Asgard. Nat hit me hard in the head and we fought an alien army,” Clint explained. “Fury thought you were dead, but turns out the spear had a bit of the tesseract inside it and it healed your body. Stephen Strange went world traveling and brought your soul back to us. You’ve been unconscious for over two weeks.”

 

Running his hand over his chest, Phil felt a scar along his sternum. Flashes of something  ... lost in a fog and impossible to pin down … danced behind his eyes. Pushing up, Phil leaned against the headboard, glad for the t-shirt and pajama pants he was wearing.

 

“So the thing that killed me, saved me?” He snorted a half-laugh. “Hell, after everything I’ve seen, I’m not sure why it surprises me.”

 

“It is a plot twist right out of Captain America comic,” Clint agreed. “Speaking of which, they’re coming out with a series, or so Stark says. You should add it to your pull list.”

 

“That sounds like a plan if you’ll come with me. There’s a great hot dog cart not far from there; Korean BBQ dogs.” Phil put it out there. What did he have to lose?

 

“It’s a date.” Clint’s whole face lit up and he leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “Then I’ll take you to the adoption fair; I promised to help raise awareness for the no-kill shelters.”

 

“Homeless animals, of course. I still remember that dog in Caracas; didn’t Lucas take it?” Phil’s gaze flicked down to Clint’s lips as the tip of his tongue swiped the edges. “Clint, I …”

 

“Better be decent in there Agent Agent!” Stark called from the outer room. “Jarvis says you’re up and at ‘em and I’ve got a bunch of people who want to check on that themselves.”

 

The bedroom door opened; Clint sat back, but neither of them made a move to release their hands. Stark entered, followed by Bruce Banner, Steve Rogers, and Natasha. Her eyes took in their proximity and she smiled as she came forward.

 

“About time, Phil,” she said, leaning down to hug him. “About damn time.”

* * *

 

Clint’s back hit the wall and he braced himself by winding his hands around Phil’s biceps, using the leverage to arch his back. Hips bumped hips; Clint gasped into Phil’s mouth as a jolt of electricity ran up his spine. Swiping his tongue along Phil’s teeth, Clint moaned in the back of his throat and deepened the kiss. A kind of frantic need blanked his brain until there was nothing left but Phil’s hands and mouth and chest and growing bulge rubbing insistently along Clint’s hip bone.

 

“I want,” Clint said.

 

“Let me,” Phil started.

 

Clint’s fingers found Phil’s belt buckle and made short work of the metal and leather then the button underneath. He wanted to feel the weight of Phil in his palm, to make his cock jump and jerk as he stroked it. Phil was already leaking and Clint spread the liquid as he began to pump and twist in the primal rhythm...

 

“Not going to … take long,” Phil whispered, his voice cracking into a groan. “So long since … felt this good.”

 

Phil came with a sigh, a release of tension, his body slumping forward, head resting on Clint’s shoulder. Phil’s breath tickled the hairs on Clint’s neck, adding a counterpoint to the ache between his legs. Dropping a kiss on Phil’s cheek, Clint clamped down on his own need. Later would be fine; right now, he wanted to enjoy the look of pure pleasure on Phil’s face.

 

Turning his head, Phil gave Clint a nuzzling kiss on his neck, one hand slipping down Clint’s torso to the waistband of his jeans. “Let me,” Phil murmured.

 

“Phil,” Clint said, catching Phil’s hand with his own. “It’s not … I’m not …”

 

Pulling back until he could look Clint in the eye, Phil deliberately moved both their hands to Clint’s crotch. “I don’t care what you aren’t, Clint. In case you missed it, I’m demisexual. I’m not attracted to body parts; I have to know a person, be close to them, before I want to have sex with them. I want Clint Barton. Want to see you come. Want to fuck you and want you to fuck me. Want to cuddle up on the couch and kiss our way through a movie. Want to hold your hand and fight for covers and eat bad takeout with you. We’re resourceful guys; pretty sure we can manage all that and more.”

 

As much as Clint wanted to believe Phil’s words, this was where his past relationships had fallen apart. “But you’re … I don’t ...,” Clint protested.

 

“Oh, Clint,” Phil said. He ground his palm into the vee of Clint’s jeans, driving the seam into the cleft between the folds of skin. Clint groaned as the material dragged across his engorged clit. “Yes, I like men. Good thing you happen to be one.” He did it again and Clint bucked into the pressure, wanting more. “I’ve got plans for you. So many ideas.”

 

“There,” Clint begged when Phil hit an especially sensitive spot. “Yes, that’s it. Harder.” He closed his eyes and rode the explosion as it rattled his body all the way down to his toes. Shivering with aftershocks, Clint dropped his head against the wall and sighed. “I should have known you’d do your research. Jesus, Phil. That was amazing.”

 

“Just the opening foray,” Phil reminded him, leaning in and kissing him lightly. “I figure we’ll get some dinner and then actually take our clothes off. Maybe even make it to the bed.”

 

“I thought we were taking this slow.” Clint certainly didn’t mind; he could feel himself spiraling up again with just the talk of another round. One hidden perk? He didn’t need a lot of time between.

 

“Three dates. Plus all the years we’ve known each other. That counts,” Phil replied.

 

“True,” Clint said, winding his arms around Phil. “So true.”

* * *

 

“What is this stuff?” Tony stared at the bright teal goo that splattered his suit, leaving smoking holes where it touched. “It’s eating through metal.”

 

“Alright, everybody in the jet. Put your suits in the quarantine bin stat,” Steve ordered, already ripping his mask off and unbuckling his belt as he headed up the ramp. “Tasha, get her fired up and get us off the ground before anyone notices.”

 

Clint could already feel his arms itching and he’d wiped the goo off before it could do more than leave little red spots. A big blob clung to the middle of his tac vest and smaller ones spattered all over his pants. Still, he tucked his bow into its place before he started stripping. Hulk was beside him already naked with his just pants to remove; his skin seemed impervious. Thor had a thousand buckles and Tony’s suit folded in on itself, but not fast enough to avoid stains on his Def Leppard shirt and jeans.

 

Tac vest, boot, pants, tank  ... Clint didn’t think as he tossed one after the other into the bin. The scars on his chest were easy to explain away. But he hesitated when all he had left was his briefs; despite working together for months, he hadn’t found the right moment to tell the others. A fission of fear made him shiver. He was, after all, trapped in a small space with a green rage monster, a super soldier, a god, and a snarkmaster. If any of them reacted badly …

 

“Damn it, Clint, get those things off. They’re smoking.” Tony’s voice interrupted. “And I don’t mean they’re hot, I mean they’re burning.”

 

Still, Clint paused. Too many memories of things he wanted but couldn’t have, and he really wanted this team. They felt like family. He couldn’t stand their rejection.

 

“It’s okay.”” Steve said, all calm and soft like he was talking to a panicked civilian. “We know.”

 

“Aye. ‘Tis nothing to be ashamed of,” Thor agreed. “On Asgard, we have two words for gender, one to describe the body and another for the soul. You, my friend, have the heart of a warrior, no matter what body you might be in.”

 

The goo touched his skin and Clint had no choice but to yank the briefs down and kick them off. Turning his back to the others, Clint couldn’t think of what to say. Steve beat him to it.

 

“I don’t understand all the modern terms, but I know that you are one of the best men I’ve ever had the pleasure to serve with. And that’s all that matters.” Only Steve could pull off compassion while buck naked with a bunch of guys in a jet.

 

“Hulk like Cupid,” Hulk said as if that settled it. “Dangly thing annoying; Hulk not like it. Banner like it too much.”

 

“Yeah, well, I like Bruce’s dangly bits too,” Tony said with a wicked grin. “And Phil’s in love with Clint’s non-dangly things, so I guess we’re keeping them.”

 

“There’s a great epic saga written about my brother Baldur’s penis,” Thor told them, sitting down in a seat, at ease with his nudity. “And another ode to Freya’s breasts. My favorite is a bawdy tale of a man who had a penis and vagina; he seduced both king and queen of the rival tribe while fighting off all opponents.”

 

“Are we seriously going to talk about this now?” Steve asked, a blush rising in his cheeks. He was trying too hard not to look below the waist.

 

“It’s no different that the sauna,” Tony said. “Except it’s colder and the seats are made of metal. Why don’t we have pillows on the jet? These things are uncomfortable as hell.”

 

“I usually have a towel in the sauna,” Steve protested.

 

“You are a handsome man, Steve. Why would you be embarrassed of your body? Were it not for my Jane and your faithfulness to your lost love, I would be more than interested in bedding you.” Thor was so earnest that a picture of Steve and Thor jumped into Clint’s mind.

 

“Oh God,” Clint burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”

 

“What’s so funny?” Natasha, who had managed to escape the goo and was the only one still dressed, asked as she turned around in the pilot’s chair. “Oh. So that’s what I smelled.”

 

“Manflesh!” Clint answered back amid his fit of hysteria.

 

“Did Widow just make a Lord of the Rings joke?” Tony asked. “And here I’d given up hope for her.”

 

* * *

 

“Holy hell,” Phil said, flopping over onto his back to avoid the wet spot. His skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair messy and his chest covered with drying splatters of come. “That was …wow.”

 

“I aim to please,” Clint replied, sprawled on the other side of the bed. He was breathing hard, the echoes of his second orgasm still rippling through him. “You’re pretty damn good yourself. That thing you did with your tongue and your fingers? Best. Ever.”

 

“I mean it. I’ve never been fucked like that.” Phil heaved himself over on his side so he could look at Clint’s abs as they rose and fell.

 

“Well, my dick is big and purple and has three variable speeds.” Clint grinned. “Can’t help it if I’m good.”

 

“Full of yourself, are you?” Phil chuckled; Clint’s hubris was one of the things Phil loved about him. “Yes, you’re good.”

 

“Actually, I think at one point I was full of you.” Clint rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “If we’re being technical about it.”

 

For a second, Phil drank in Clint’s messy hair and his shining eyes. “God, how I love you,” he murmured. He never got tired of saying it.

 

“I love you too,” Clint replied, leaning in to kiss Phil. One kiss led to another, and they ended up twined together, hands stroking bare skin, legs mingled.

 

Finally, Clint groaned and rolled over, getting up to head to the bathroom. His ass was on perfect display, flexing as he walked, and Phil let himself stare. Coming back, Clint handed Phil a washrag; he cleaned up then tossed it in the laundry hamper. Sliding beneath the covers, Clint snuggled up to Phil and they settled in to sleep.  Before he drifted off, Phil had time to wonder how he’d ended up here, with this amazing person and a life together stretched out before them. Just what the future held, he didn’t know, but Phil was certain of one thing. Clint Barton was the man he would always love.

  



End file.
